


Good Dog

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [20]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 703 OV, Animal Play, Chocobos, Collars, Community: kinkfest, Grooming, M/M, Pre-Game(s), Puppy Play, Rabanastre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-11
Updated: 2008-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>"Gamboge's more than enough chocobo in my life, but I could use a dog."</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Dog

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't what I originally planned to do with this prompt (but it's happier!). Written with thanks to lynndyre for beta and hand-holding.

"There's no need for jealousy."

Basch combs his fingers through Vossler's hair, brushing out sand and grit. His eyes are not waiting to catch Vossler's, his lips straight, but Vossler is not fooled by the display. He pushes Basch away-- and then, comes Basch's quiet laughter-- so that Vossler can bend for his greaves, unlace his shorts.

Basch is already undressed, but mufti clothing is simpler to strip.

Delayed three days in the desert, and two hours in the stables, Vossler's sense of humour is brittle. The storm that had forced Vossler to command the caravan seek shelter had moved south, caught a returning chocobo patrol, Basch's chocobo patrol-- and surely Vossler could wait for him to finishing untangling the poor bird's tattered wings? But, the way Basch touched that bird, fingers thrust deep in its feathers-- the way he spoke to it, soothing and soft and certain--

Vossler hates sandstorms, an enemy he could not fight, repel or resist. He could only wait.

"Keep that on?" Now, Basch is watching. Of Vossler's armour, all that remains is the dense-weave shirt that softens the plate-edges of his brigandine, green fabric tight across his shoulders and back.

"Gamboge's more than enough chocobo in my life, but I could use a dog." Vossler wonders how Basch, who can only talk dirty in the flattest tone imaginable, can say things like that and be smiling so warmly. "A companion for the hunt, to sleep at the foot of my bed?"

Basch raises his hands as slowly as he steps forward, his hands, palms down, fingers curved, rise to the height of Vossler's neck. His eyes flicker between there, Vossler's neck, and his face.

Vossler tilts his chin up, a small gesture, but enough. Basch's thumbs stroke either side of Vossler's larynx, and then across the buckle above. His fingers are sticky with sweat.

The collar is part of Vossler's armour, the grip across his throat a familiar warning, a call to battle vigilance. But, it feels different when Basch slides his fingers between the leather and Vossler's skin, and pulls.

Vossler makes a whimpering sound, like a hound, except he hadn't mean to do that. Basch just grins, tugs Vossler's head closer still, tries to kiss him, but Vossler uses too much tongue, spit coating Basch's lips, his chin, and the way his father's hounds act, the way they mark their territory is all too vivid in Vossler's mind.

The collar pulls once across his throat. "--Heel."

Vossler allows himself to be held to arm's reach, waiting, wary. Just a kiss, and he's already rigid. He wants this, strangeness somehow so easy with Basch. This does not feel strange.

Basch's face shines with spit-- spit that his tongue is licking from his face-- but his grin is unchanged, or perhaps, even brightened. "Oh, you're a good dog. I like good dogs."

Basch's fingernails scratch over Vossler's scalp, returning again and again to two spots above his ears, where Vossler realises a dog's might be. It's not an urgent sensation that follows, but it's pleasing, and Vossler's skin itches less to be free of the sand. Vossler's eyes slide shut.

Basch kisses him again, light glancing pressure that Vossler tries to meet with light pressure.

"Good dogs heel, Vossler. Would you roll over for me? Would you beg?"

Vossler nips at Basch's lip, taking his upper lip just between his teeth. But this collar tug doesn't pull him away, and the sharp swallow it provokes in Vossler feels better, right, good.

"Good dogs mind their teeth?" Vossler asks.

Basch's cock has left a liquid trail up the crease of Vossler's thigh. Vossler's knees want to bend; his mouth floods wet.

"Only when they're told to," Basch says. "Do you need to be fed?"


End file.
